Religion

I read the book, “SILENCE” by Shusaku Endo. I watched the movie. Both experiences left me pondering the presence of pervading doubt emanating from a perceived absence of God. It is the subtle specter of silence that is not quiet. It disturbs, distracts and often results in false discernment. Silence, in this case, provides neither spiritual nor physical solace. At the same time, it is a profound absence that evokes an equally profound presence.

I recently read and re-read Fredrik Backman’s novel, “A Man Called Ove.” I’d already viewed the movie version, so this would be time No. 3 with Ove and his strangely surprising life. Though I had returned the book to the library and had conversed with others about it multiple times, I could not let it go. It would not let me go.

Memories are strange and wonderful things. Strangely, they lure us into a past replete with all the vagaries of youth, all the remembrances of antics experienced and relished or, perhaps, yet laden with regret. Memory lane is not always a return to the good, ole days. Yet, it is a road we all travel, sometimes mindlessly. It is a trip we seem unable to refuse and one we replay with hope that all errors will be corrected. Mistakes will not be repeated.

It’s been a long, hard winter. Blame is placed global warming with its concomitant climate change, even on God. We’ve ached with the cold, worried over the flooding, anguished over the unusual warmth in places where cold is expected, and generally waited with more than bated breath for springtime to come — and stay. March teases us. April periodically delights, but May is the month of promise.

So often we have allowed doubt to cast a shadow on our faith. We let it tinge credence with incredulity, casting the gloom of uncertainty upon the grace of certitude. This causes distress and dismay to dog our steps and burden our spirits. We are shaken, but not to the core. To try to dismiss doubt summarily — banishing it to the darkest corner we can find — does no good. Somehow it surfaces when we least expect it and we are, once again, ill at ease.

So often we have allowed doubt to cast a shadow on our faith. We let it tinge credence with incredulity, casting the gloom of uncertainty upon the grace of certitude. This causes distress and dismay to dog our steps and burden our spirits. We are shaken, but not to the core. To try to dismiss doubt summarily — banishing it to the darkest corner we can find — does no good. Somehow it surfaces when we least expect it and we are, once again, ill at ease.

One day my sister was busily discussing with me all that had happened in her young daughter’s life. She was engaged in a lively monologue of maternal advice and suggestions as I listened with the heart and ears of an older sibling who had been that route many years before. Neither of us noticed that we were not alone in the room, until a small voice interrupted our reverie. I smiled as I heard my niece tell her Mom, “You are walking down the wrong aisle, talking.”

Fourteen years ago, I submitted a piece for publication in The Brunswick Beacon. Titled “A Cross-eyed Walk Down Main Street Shallotte,” it would become the catalyst for a wonderful and surprising journey into the land of newsprint. Deadlines became signals for creativity instead of instigators of angst. I fell in love. This was not work. This is not work. It is joy.